


Curse of a Kiss

by basketcasewrites



Series: Bella Inquietante [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Blood Drinking, Cigarettes, M/M, No Sex, One Shot Collection, Vampire Bites, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10840119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: Peter's clothes are always skin tight, always hugging every curve of his body, always attracting the attention he craves.





	Curse of a Kiss

Peter smiles, crooked, holding the cigarette between his pink lips. His t-shirt is too tight for him, so are the pair of shiny leather pants, hugging his body like a second skin and displaying each outline and curve of his lightly toned physique. 

Even through the heavy smoke he notices that he's being watched, can feel it as acutely as if the man had come up behind him and ghosted a finger over his skin, inducing a set of shivers up his spine. 

He loves the attention, revels in keeping the eyes of the stranger on him. It's his addiction. He winks playfully at the man not far from him, down the bar and nursing a drink. The man smirks at Peter, a hood covers most of his face, obscuring him from view. But Peter has become an expert at these things and even though he can't see it he can feel the man as his eyes dance over his body.

Satisfied that he has him where he wants him, Peter turns away. Taking a long drag of the cigarette, he fills his lungs with the poison, and orders himself another drink.  
He knows how these things work; you could say that he's been around the block a few times. He knows exactly how to get them to come chasing after him.

"You always drink alone?" the stranger asks, seating himself comfortably beside him on the once vacant seat. 

Peter smirks, slyly glancing at the cracked wall clock; only ten minutes, a new record. 

"Are you offering to buy me a drink?" he purrs unashamedly.

"I'm offering to take you outta here," the man says, straight-forward, no nonsense.

Peter smiles, immediately liking the guy. Most people danced around the subject, bought themselves drink after drink until they were drunk enough to convince themselves the next morning that the alcohol had made them do it.

"You are?" he says, again with that timid purr. "To a better place than this, I hope."

"I don't know any better places," the man shrugs, smiling as he does so. He reveals a set of perfectly white teeth, teeth that don't belong in this seedy bar. "Do you?"

"I know a lot of things," Peter whispers provocatively, leaning forward into the man. He lowers his voice more, "I know that the back-seat of a car is small and uncomfortable, that the bathrooms in this place are breeding grounds for filth and disease, and that it wouldn't matter where you took me because I could make anywhere enjoyable for you."

The man curls his fingers around the cigarette dangling from Peter's fingers, loosening it from his grasp and putting it between his own lips. 

"Is that so?" he asks Peter only after taking a long drag from the stick and blowing the dark smoke in Peter's face. Tickling his skin, the back of his throat.

The man parts Peter's lips with a rough, calloused finger and places the cigarette back into his mouth, watching his tongue swirl around the end and clamp it firmly. His touch, unexpected, sends a shiver travelling up Peter's spine. A shiver that he hopes the man has not noticed, yet by his smirk he knows that the man felt it all too well. 

Peter nods, unable to formulate any coherent thoughts with the man appraising him. He mutters breathlessly, the cigarette already taken from his mouth, "It is."

The man rests a firm hand on Peter's thigh, squeezes, and though it had happened gradually over the night, only then, for the first time, he feels his control slipping. 

"I think such bold statements should be backed up with proof," he says, tightening his grip on Peter's thigh, his thumb rubbing light circles into the flesh.

"You sound like a scientist," Peter says, trying to grab at his usual composure. 

"Maybe I am," the man smiles, again baring his set of teeth, his sharpened canines prominent.

"What scientist would you be if you were?"

"A haematologist," he says. He smiles crookedly, nodding twice before bringing his lips to Peter's ear and lowering his voice. "Or, an anatomist."

Peter exhales involuntarily at the words, he bites down on his lip and forces himself to hold back his groan as the man shifts the placement of his hands higher up on Peter's leg.

"Call me Wade," he says, taking his hands off Peter as he stands. "Remember it."

Peter watches the man -- Wade -- as he walks away. He doesn't glance back over his shoulder, makes no gesture that he wants Peter to follow, but Peter knows these things. Knows that that's what the man wants Peter to do.

He slugs down the rest of his drink, the burning liquor like heaven down his throat. Awakening his senses. Gingerly, he unfolds himself from the stool. He follows behind the man slowly, leisurely, each step taken carefully. His hips sway as he walks, garnering for him the attention from the patrons that he craves. 

"Momma always warned me about strange men -- especially about following them in the middle of the night," he says to Wade as he stepps out from the pub, letting the door close behind him with a muffled click. 

"Maybe," Wade begins, turning to Peter so suddenly it startles him. He grabs Peter at the wrists, pulling him in for a sharp kiss. Their face inches apart, close enough for Peter to catch a partial image of his entire face, coloured in hues of pink, blue, red, purple from the neon lights of the unnamed bar, yet Peter was still able to see deep scars. Wade speaks, predatory, "Maybe, you should have listened to your Momma, baby boy."

Peter gulps, the grip on his wrists tightening as an unreadable flash sparked through Wade's eyes. He feels his knees go weak. No one has ever had this effect on him; has made him want them so. 

"Well," Peter says, regaining his composure and staring Wade in the eye. "Maybe, I like strange men. Maybe, I like them a whole lot better at midnight."

Wade loosens his grip on Peter, noticing the mark that his hold left on the pale skin. He shoots another of his canine-bearing grins at Peter; wolfish. A smile that should be terrifying. A smile that shoots through Peter faster than any liquor he's ever drank; any drug he's ever shot up on. 

He steps back, readjusts his hood. When he walks away this time he does gesture over his shoulder, letting Peter know that he should follow him. 

He car is parked in a far corner of the parking lot, underneath the broken street light, and is completely black, exterior and interior. Peter never had been good at identifying cars, of all the things he didn't care about this was the least. 

He slides into the car as Wade holds the door open for him, giggling girlishly.  
The first thing that surprises him is the spaciousness. All he is used to is cramped spaces with barely anywhere to move. He smiles again, pleased.  
The second thing he notices is the giant cross hanging from the rear-view mirror. 

"I never took you for a man of Jesus," he says to Wade as he slips in beside him, the car shifting under his weight. 

"I'm not," Wade says gruffly, with a finality to his words. He quiets Peter's questions with a firm kiss, placing him back onto the cushioned seat. 

"How much?" he asks, looking down at Peter, straddling him.

Blankly, Peter stares at him; oblivious to what he is talking about. He can only think about the man above him, can only curse himself for wearing such a restricting pair of pants.

"How much?" Wade repeats. "How much for you? For tonight?"

Peter looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, "For you? On the house." He says it before he thinks it through, does not regret it afterwards. His rent is due tomorrow but he reasons with himself: he'll squeeze in another customer tonight, he'll do more tomorrow-

He loses his train of thought as Wade plants a light track of kisses up the line of his neck to his jaw, nibbling hungrily at his skin. Peter sighs, shivering as Wade sticks his tongue against his skin. 

His eyes close, he forgets that he is in a car outside a dingy bar with a stranger whose face he has not yet cleary seen. He pretends that he is with his lover; that Wade is his lover and they are taking a short detour before heading home. 

He loses himself in his fantasy.

"It's always so much sweeter when they come willingly," Wade mutters against his neck, tickling the light dusting of hair. 

Peter smiles awkwardly, uncertain of what he means and unwilling to ask. He hums under his breath, asking his question without having to say anything. He reaches out for Wade, slipping his fingers under the hood, wanting to run his hands through the man's hair.

He touches against the bald head and groans longingly for Wade's touch, his skin turning a faint red at his embarrassment, as Wade separates from him quickly. Jerking back suddenly the hood falls away from Wade's face.

If he were not so overcome by lust as he is, Peter would have started at Wade's appearance. Merely, his eyes widen. 

What had seemed in the dim lights of the bar to Peter to be disfiguring scars were in fact thick, dark veins twisting over his face. A vivid road map of purple vines, alarmingly visible against his pale, paper-thin skin. 

Peter stiffens, tracing the largest of the veins with his gaze. The one that cuts through the centre of his face, winding past his left eye. It does not change how bad Peter wants him; none of it does.

Their eyes meet in the darkened car, lit only by the dim overhead light, Wade barely inches from Peter. His eyes flash a brilliant red, crimson, so fast that Peter imagines that he is, as he often does, allowing his delusions to overtake him. 

Wade smiles at him slowly, lopsided. He lowers his head to the crook of Peter's neck, breathing in deeply the salty, sweaty scent that Peter gives off. 

He feels Wade grip his chin firmly, let's him to tilt his head back. A loud, filthy moan escapes from his tightly clamped lips as Wade begins sucking a bruise into his neck, directly on his jugular vein.

A strange sensation overtakes him, one he is unable to describe. Another of Peter's moans echo in the car, his reaction to Wade as his teeth poke into his skin. 

He calls out, displeasure replacing his enjoyment as he feels Wade bite down harder. A pair of sharp teeth break the thin layer of his skin, into his vein.

His grip tightens on Wade, eyes widening, body tauten, scratching at him wildly. Futile in his attempts, he tries to clamber away from underneath Wade's strong hold. 

Peter can feel his body weakening from the blood loss, his vision blurring, eyes losing focus. His actions are slow, as if he is moving through molasses. 

Fears race through his mind. He fears that he is going to die, fears that this will be his last night, fears -- above all -- that the years of heavy drugs and alcohol has finally broken him and this is all in his brain.

Wade grabs at Peter's neck, pressing down on the vein as he sinks his teeth in deeper. 

In a last moment of consciousness, Peter flutters his eyes over Wade's face. He sees traces of his blood on the corners of Wade's mouth. Sees, instead of a vein ridden face, skin slowly clearing to reveal a handsome face. He smiles, delirious, then he blacks out.

 

The sun slanting into the room from the open window burns his skin; Peter has never been a daytime lover. He wakes unhurriedly, body aching, no idea of how he had arrived home the night before. 

A headache stabs through his head as he tries to move, memories of last night hazy. A throbbing in his neck surprises him, unsettles him but does not concern him. Immediately, he scolds himself for drinking too much. He silently takes a vow that he knows he will not keep for him to never drink again.

Peter shuffles through his apartment, to his kitchen. He needs an Aspirin, is desperate for one. 

The bottle of Aspirin sits on his kitchen counter, holding down a small, neatly folded piece of paper and three hundred dollars.

He squints at the writing, the words, to his fuddled brain, barely comprehensible.

"Thank you," he reads aloud, hand shooting to his neck and feeling the two pinprick holes as he sees it simply signed: Wade.


End file.
